Bad Liver And A Broken Heart
by PityTheBackseat
Summary: S.E Hintonverse Rumble Fish. How does the father cope after the events of the book? Title and lyrics by Tom Waits. Betad by Siyamau


Wiping down the wooden scratched surface of the bar with a damp cloth, I noticed the slumped over figure at the far booth surrounded by shot glasses and bottles.  
A pitiful sight, his once smart shirt faded and stained beige pants, his fingers constantly fidgeted as he sometimes mumbled to himself, his misty eyes darting about under messy hair topped with a battered hat, days of stubble adorned his face.

I'd heard that before his wife left him, he was a lawyer, real smart, textbooks and all. She'd ran off to California, leaving their two little boys with him and he hit the bottle hard and never looked back. Some say she was the love of his life.

The clock above his booth looked down on him as the hands swung round as he sat there hour after hour, day after day, night after night. He'd disappear at intervals, returning with a marginally cleaner shirt on to order more drinks with welfare money.

The next day I noticed he hadn't appeared until it was just starting to get dark and he burst through the door, dressed in a shabby dark suit, tears running down his cheeks and stumbled towards his booth, hitting the table with his fist as he sat down and buried his head in his arms.  
I raised my eyebrows at the outburst of emotion and his different clothing and wondered whether I should take him over a beer. As I was serving some customers, the bar door swung open and a dark-red-haired lady came in wearing a smart black suit. She walked in cautiously past our battered jukebox playing some country songs. I knew she was the type who had money and class, what was she doing in a dive like this? She sighed as she surveyed the bar, her eyes skimming the regulars until she turned and saw him in the booth, his shoulders shaking as he cried.

Her face seemed to soften slightly as she regarded him and stepped towards the bar, perching on one of our stools. I quickly smoothed my hair back with my hand and smiled as I asked her what she wanted. She told me and as I poured it, she looked back over her shoulder at the booths, seemingly wondering where to sit. She stared at the occupied booth until I spoke,

"Miss, if you're looking for somewhere to sit and drink in peace, I wouldn't choose any booth near that, he's emotional today and he may, ah, offend you."

Her slightly bitter laugh tinkled like ice cubes in a glass,

"He's already offended me, I was married to the poor man for some years. I had to come back to this godforsaken hole for some, how shall I say, family business." Her smile waned and she took her drink with elegantly manicured fingers. Her eyes shone in the low light, "our youngest boy died a week ago. Motorcycle accident. Poor thing. I never really knew him but his brother had told me he was a real sweet boy. It was his funeral today."  
I awkwardly offered my condolences and she accepted them graciously, "My former husband you see over there, was never much of a father, he seemed to love me more than the boys, bless his dear heart".  
She sipped some more at her drink and with a sigh, disentangled herself from the barstool. She ordered another drink and a beer. I served her without a word and watched her almost glide to the booth. As she put the drinks down on the table, she sat down next to him. He looked up, his eyes wet with tears and bowed his head as if in shame or respect. They talked quietly for some time, her sipping at her glass and him taking gulps from the glistening brown bottle.

I served other customers for a while and changed the barrels down in the basement. As I came back upstairs I expected her to be gone, leaving him alone in his despair. It must be hard losing a son. With a jolt, I realised I knew the sons she spoke of, the oldest had been a respected gang leader for a few years, my kid brother fell in with them for a while before the gangs stopped fighting. He'd been a legend in our neighbourhood, the Motorcycle Boy. The youngest son, that must have been Rusty-James. He'd seemed to get by on the Motorcycle Boy's name, and had gone off to California when his brother had been shot dead by a local cop. The neighbourhood kids had been devastated and had started some fierce rumbles before eventually they realised there was no point and some drifted away or fell into steady jobs. The gang leader, Smokey, I heard he was married with some kids.

I shook my head at teenage legends and neighbourhood leaders as I ascended the steps. To my surprise, she was still there, talking quietly, wiping his eyes. She caught my eye and with a flick of the wrist ordered another round. I brought the drinks over, took a few empty bottles and glasses back.  
She drank this one quickly, looking at her watch. She rushed him through his beer and hauled him up, his sweaty head leaning on her suited shoulder. She grimaced as she heaved him up. I offered her a helping hand as I've often had to lead him out of the bar but she shook her head no and I stood by as they slowly made their way out of the booth. She leaned him against the bar and asked me about the bill; brought out a smart purse and counted out five bills. She looked at him and counted out ten more.

"That's for his future tab." She stated matter of factly, I nodded as I took the notes and silently wondered how long it would last.  
The smart suited lady took her ex-husband out and as they exited, the jukebox started a new song with a melancholy refrain.

I looked back at the booth, the bottles and glasses littering the table. The song's words reverberated in my head,  
"_And I don't have a drinking problem, 'cept when I can't get a drink  
And I wish you'd a-known her, we were quite a pair,  
She was sharp as a razor and soft as a prayer_"

I glanced at the clock above the booth and noticed it had stopped.

I hear he died a few weeks later, alone at home. He hadn't touched his tab. There'd been a complaint of a bad smell and the Super had broken in and found him. He'd been clutching a law book, an empty bottle of bourbon next to him and a tattered old photo of two small boys lying on his chest.


End file.
